


The Luck of the Irish

by Calleva



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:08:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22915252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calleva/pseuds/Calleva
Summary: A contract has been taken out on King Louis' Queen, Anne. An Irish mercenary, Gallagher, and his band of loyal men, have tracked her down to a monastery on a high clifftop.Negotiations don't work, so they must just rely on a lot of cunning, and a little luck.....Based on the episode 'Knight Takes Queen' in Season One of the BBC Musketeers (2014). Written as a March fan fic challenge for the Facebook group Musketeers, We Are The Garrison.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	The Luck of the Irish

He was invincible; he didn't need luck. With his most trusted men beside him, Charles Gallagher felt he could take Paris in one day, so one convent would not cause him much bother. Granted, it was a steep ride to get to, but once there, they would have a simple job to tunnel beneath and fire it.

There was a time when Hugh O'Neill would not have stooped to attack a monastery. Among the green hills of the old country, he had believed in honour - to one's word, to God and to clan, but now there was only the clan left. They fanned out as they galloped across the countryside, men who knew each other so well that the rode as one.

"Let's save ourselves some trouble and give them the chance to stand down and hand the woman over." Gallagher was talking to himself more than anyone else, as they sat staring at the great stone edifice above them.  
"Who would want the Queen dead?" O'Malley asked, scratching his shaved head as if thinking took some effort.  
Gallagher shrugged "'tis a woman paying for it, too. I doubt she's acting alone. Who knows? All I care about is getting it done and having the gold jingling in my pocket." Gallagher could have added that gold was all he had come to believe in.

As a boy Hugh O'Neill had been an altar boy; he knew all the responses in flawless Latin and exactly how far to swing the censer of incense, too little and it smoked, too much and the chain buckled, the lid fell off and there was a mess on the floor. The Latin had come more easily thanks to a good tutor; as the heir to his clan lands he was well-educated for he would be a great chieftain one day.

Now he was just another musket for hire, willing to do anything, no matter how dirty, just to survive. 

He had been deprived of his lands by the English when he refused to adopt the Protestant religion. He had been half-minded to go along with it - play lip-service while secretly maintaining the old beliefs, but he knew that the English wouldn't stop there - he would have them at his door constantly making demands for men and money. The idea of putting an English chaplain in charge of the family chapel galled - the new man would not even be able to speak to the local people as few of them spoke English well. As well as that, he could as soon believe in Lugh, father of Cú Chulainn and head of the old Irish gods than this new English religion. 

Now he believed in nothing at all except surviving and protecting his band of brothers. They were a mixed bag, his most trusted men had come with him from Ireland, all tattooed on the arm with the red hand of Ulster. The rest had joined him along the way, a few French army deserters, a couple of Scots and a handful of men whose origins were not what was claimed. Once, Gallagher wouldn't have had a heretic in his band, but as long as they could fight, he didn't care if they were Protestant, Musselman, or nothing at all.

He affixed a white kerchief to a stick and rode forward, to parlay with one of the Musketeers who had brought the Queen to safety. He wasn't afraid of their fearsome reputation - he was a mean shot himself and with his habitual luck, he'd nothing to fear from these Frenchies. He took one of the new men, the Scotsman Murchie, as a test.

Athos rode through the gates alone, but he was covered by one of his comrades from atop one of the high walls. They were taking no chances, and nor should they. Gallagher thought he might have the whole thing cleared up and be back in Paris by nightfall. He needed this - nasty work, but it would add to his reputation and draw more desperate men to his band.

Athos wasn't going to negotiate, he expected them to leave with nothing. Gallagher became irritated, he didn't waste his time on failures. Murchie sat impassive, just staring. He had been told what to do but seemed in a trance. The man on the convent walls took aim and quicker still, Gallagher pulled the trigger of his own pistol and Murchie fell to the ground.  
"He had a chance to kill you and he wasted it. That's how I treat my own men who fail me," He muttered ominously to the tousle-haired Frenchman, "Imagine what I'll do with you."  
"This is not how a soldier behaves; white flag, officer's boots, your men holding the line. Soldiers don't kill women."  
"Whatever I once was, I'm not a soldier now. I've given my word, without that, I'm nothing."

Nothing at all in fact, because no one would hire a mercenary who got cold feet.

Grim-faced, the French nobleman rode back into the convent and Gallagher, now alone, took the reins of Murchie's horse and rode back to his men. 

It was clear that despite his ultimatum, the convent inhabitants were not coming out. He had offered safe passage to the nuns, but they, like a flock of scared hens, were cowering in their fortress, imagining it would save them. There were only two Musketeers to defend the entire roost - Gallagher had sent some of his men to hunt the other two down before they could raise the alarm in Paris - and the trapped men wouldn't have unlimited ammunition.  
"We'll flush them out in no time," He told his men, "they have neither the men nor the weapons to keep us out."  
"'tis the luck of the Irish keeps us going," O'Malley opined.  
"We make our own luck."

Indeed they had no luck scaling the great walls, the grappling hook was severed from its rope by an axe-wielding nun and the man had a long drop to his death.  
"They may not have weapons but they are not giving up!" Cheery McNab grunted, his usually dour face running with sweat as he dodged a glass bottle that, like its companions, would burst into flame upon landing. A beehive came crashing down, its inhabitants swarming out to lance with angry pin pricks of venom. Men ran, swatting the air and crying out in terror.

But Gallagher had a feeling that his employers would not take too kindly to failure. He had brought shovels and gave the order to dig, dig.... the ground gave way quite easily, so by the luck of the Irish he might indeed get the job done and be home before tomorrow's daybreak.

The defenders were in high rooms and it would be difficult for them to get a clean shot without leaning out of the windows, once his men were close to the foundations of the building. It was just as well, because both defenders were marksmen. The Queen's bodyguard clearly knew their business.

"They can't hold out forever, they will run out of ammunition, convents don't usually boast an armoury." He assured what remained of his men. The Ulstermen had mostly survived, a few bee stings wouldn't deter them. Young McGrath had been in a monastery for a while and knew about bees. His face may be covered with red blotches, but he smiled gamely. "Let's to it, boss. Show them what we are made of."

They broke into the lower reaches of the monastery building and entered a tunnel system. Pistols primed and ready, Gallagher listened for the sounds ahead which told him that the Musketeers had come to meet them further along. Best keep out of range of that deadly aim. They'd just have to shoot it out until the defenders ran out of shot and then it would be a simple matter to find, and kill, the Queen. They'd need to bring her body back as proof of the job - Murchie's horse would be useful.

Shots rang out as they rounded a corner. The defenders had made a barricade and were shooting over the top. A lucky shot might be all they needed. Wait, wait.... wait for the silence.

And then it came.  
"Careful, they might be bluffing," He cautioned O'Malley who wanted to rush forward.  
They were bluffing. Pfft, and the big Ulsterman was lying on the ground, not moving.  
"Our luck has held so far," McGrath insisted, "just one final push and we'll have them."  
At that moment there was a great commotion, the feet of many more men on the stone steps told Gallagher that reinforcements had arrived. So - the Musketeers had managed to reach Paris. He blinked, realising that it meant that more of his men would have died.

He shrugged and turned round. He could just leave and lie low for a while. Perhaps.  
"Tell me who hired you and I'll spare you the hangman's noose." Behind him, the laconic tones of the aristocrat Athos sounded almost weary.  
"What kind of a soldier would I be if I broke a confidence like that?" Gallagher's blue eyes fixed his assailant's green ones. One final chance. His rapid reflexes had saved him often.

But not this time. The Musketeer Athos drew even faster and Gallagher realised with surprise that a bullet had hit him before he'd even got his pistol from its sheath. He fell back.

Not pain exactly, but a sense that life was leaking out of him, inexorably. Two kind old eyes gazed down at him, not an angel, but an elderly nun. She whispered in his ear "Now is a good time to repent." Her soft accent was redolent of green hills, peat fires and good whiskey.

And he was back in the family chapel again and the psalm was being chanted. He began softly: "Blessed be the Lord my strength which teaches my hands to war, and my fingers to battle...." he paused, forgetting. The old nun continued for him: "My goodness and my fortress; my high tower, and my deliverer; my shield, and he in whom I trust." High tower was right enough, he thought as his memories began to slip away. Summoning the last of his strength his lips moved almost inaudibly "Man is like to vanity: his days are a shadow.... that passes.... away." His head fell back and a thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.  
Mother Superior closed his eyes gently "Eternal rest grant unto him...." she began. The Musketeers silently crossed themselves. This was not a time for exulting.

Queen Anne was overjoyed to see them all safe and well. "I knew my Musketeers would not fail to protect me, and thank you, Mother Superior, for all you did to help us."  
Mother Superior shook her head and smiled, "t'was nothing, just the luck of the Irish." She said.


End file.
